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 OLD LOVE LETTERS 
 
 PS 2014 
 .H12 05 
 1897 
 Copy 1 
 
 A Comedy in One Act 
 
 BY 
 
 BRONSON HOWARD 
 
 Copyright, 1897, by Bronson Howard. 
 
 i'-^fc^^^./.^— l,:e: 
 
 -^ ^ fcp Q'V^ Cy 
 
CHARACTERS. 
 
 Mrs. Florence Brownlee. 
 The Hon. Edward Warburton. 
 
 SCEISTE. 
 
 The BE8IDENCE OF Mrs. Bbownlee, in Cambridge. 
 
 A KAINY DAY. 
 
 Be still, sad heart, and cease repining; 
 Behind the clouds is the sun still shining." 
 
^3/ 
 
 SMALL PEOPEETIES. 
 
 Lot of old letters from cabinet drawer. {Before curtain.) 
 
 Two bundles of letters wrapped in faded tissue paper and tied 
 
 with faded ribbon ; letter in each (see pages 7 to 18) — one 
 
 to Warburton, otlier in cabinet drawer. 
 Photograph album. Portrait of Florence, 1878, on back. 
 Call bell for centre table. 
 Small rosewood box, to contain letters of Wauburton. {To 
 
 servant, before curtain. ) 
 Sheet music on piano. Song, "The Davis Cold and Dreary," 
 
 on top. 
 Two photographs and note case to Waeburton before curtain. 
 Salver to servant at l. entrance. (Do. with card portrait.) 
 
 FUENITURE, ETC. 
 
 Piano stool, 
 Flower table. 
 
 Looking-glass over mantel. 
 Glass chandelier for room. 
 Same for entry. 
 Brass and iron fender. 
 Tongs, etc., in stand. 
 
 Piano, upright. 
 Square centre table. 
 Old cabinet and secretary. 
 Hat rack. 
 Hall bench. 
 Two arm chairs. 
 Two back chairs, all leather 
 covered. 
 
 Heavy curtains for window and door. 
 Brass curtain rods and rings. 
 Three small Turkish rugs— one at fire, one at piano, other at door. 
 
COSTUMES A1^T> APPEAEAJ^OES. 
 
 Mrs. Bkownlee is a widow of thirty-two, dressed quietly but 
 richly, either in second mourning or very subdued colors. Her 
 general manner is demure and gentle. When excited, animated 
 but dignified. She is still in the early prime of womanly beauty. 
 
 Warburton is a man of forty, with much dignity of manner ; 
 dressed elegantly and stylishly, but in keeping with his years 
 and his position as a foreign minister of the United States. His 
 hair, moustache, etc., iron-gray, and his personal appearance 
 somewhat beyond his years, as described by himself on first 
 meeting Mrs. Brownlee. 
 
OLD LOVE LETTERS. 
 
 Rain at Rise. 
 
 SCENE. — The reddence o/Mrs. Brownlee, at Cambridge. Apart- 
 ment of an old., New England family mansion. The general 
 appearance of the apartment that of which the modern so- 
 called "East- Lake" style is an imitation. The furniture rich 
 and old, hut not too florid, as if an old European house — 
 general tendency to plainness. Eoidences of a woman's taste in 
 the way of bric-a-hrac, flowers, embroidery, rugs, etc. A mantel 
 and flreplace, L., at about 2d entrance, with flre; a mirror 
 over it. A windoici. l. , upper corner. If there is a view be- 
 yond, the artist should bear in mind that, according to the text, 
 it is a "rainy day." An old-fashioned, cabinet up c. A table, 
 c. front. One of the drawers of the cabinet on this table with 
 old letters in it. A portrait of an old gentleman on the icaM, 
 up R., or on an easel, up R. c. A cltair near mantel. An 
 upright piano, doicn R. Door, R. 3 E. Door, l. 1 e. Loic 
 music — ""Rainy Day.'' 
 
 DISCOVERED. — Mrs. Brownlee is discovered sitting at l. of 
 t'ible, down c. She is reading old letters from the drawer on 
 the table, crumpling them up and thivwing them into the flre. 
 As the curtain rises, she rruuiples one letter and, takes another 
 from the drawer, opens it, glances at its contents quickly, 
 crumples it and tosses it into the fire. As s7i,e looks at another, 
 she bursts into a merry laugh, or crumples it and throics it in 
 after the others. As she reads another, sJie stops laughing, 
 abruptly, puts her handkerchief to her eyes and rests her head 
 on her hand. 3fu.sic ceases. 
 
 Mrs. Brownlee. Old letters ! Old letters ! Tliey are like 
 faded rose-leaves in a book ! The thouglits in tliem are withered 
 now; even the loving wishes have long ago lost their fragrance. 
 How many of the hands that wrote them are lying over still 
 hearts to-day ! Heigh-ho ! 
 
 (She takes the letter in her hand and throws it i?ito the flre. 
 Several more from the drawer follow it, after rapid glajices, 
 with alternate laughter and sighs. She pauses over another.) 
 
 Helen Thomaston. Fourteen years ago — is it so long? We were 
 both eighteen. {Reads.) " Arthur and I are to be married next 
 month. We are both so happy, and oh ! Florence, I feel per- 
 fectly sure that we shall always love each other." Married — and 
 separated — more than ten years ago. ((Jrumpling the letter and 
 
6 OLD LOVE LETTERS. 
 
 tJiroivmg it into the fi/'e.) Go, and keep company with a young 
 girl's — I — remember — I wrote just such a letter as that — when — 
 when Edward Warburton and I were — Pshaw! {Brusldng Iter 
 eyes.) What has a widow of thirty-two to do with the silly 
 dreams of a young girl? {Site takes another letter and bursts into 
 hearty lawjhter as she looks at it.) Ha, ha, ha, ha! [Reads.) 
 " Henry Layton Jarvis." Ha, ha, ha, ha'i Why did 1 keep that 
 letter? Ha.ha, ha, ha! Harry swears— Ha, ha! — dear, good- 
 natured, awkward Harry Jarvis — he swears he will never love 
 any woman but me, and will surely die if I refuse him. Ha, ha, 
 ha ! He will surely die if I refuse him. Ha, ha, ha ! This was 
 barely thirteen years ago. Harry's oldest boy is nearly twelve 
 years old now. Ha, ha, ha ! 1 must show this letter to his wife. 
 Laura is my best friend, and Harry is the jolliest, fattest man in 
 the neighborhood. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha ! Heigho ! Laura 
 and I are such good friends now. I could never believe she 
 meant any wrong — and she was so sorry for it afterwards ; but if 
 Laura Malvern had not come between Edward Warburton and 
 me — I — Vie— (Looking thoughtfully.) — Heigh-ho ! 
 
 " Of all sad words of tongue or pen. 
 The saddest are these : It might have been. " 
 
 [She brushes her eyes and straightens up, suddenly.) Those silly 
 dreams again ! One would think I was a romantic school-girl 
 still, instead of a subdued and practical widow. {Takes ((nother 
 letter from the dretwer.) Oh ! Poor, darling John ! Heigh-ho! 
 My husband. [She glances over her shordder at the portrait on 
 the wall, upTi.; kisses the letter.) Six years ago to-morrow, so it 
 is, since Mr. Brownlee died. Six years a widow. How rapidly 
 time does tiy ! {Olances at the porlrait.) Poor, dear John ! [She 
 touches her eyes daintily iiyith her handkercldef. Reads.) "My 
 darling little birdie !" — Ah! — John always called me his little 
 " Birdie," as if I were only a child. John was a little over fifty 
 when this was written. I was nearly twenty. He always treated 
 me as if I might have been his daughter. {Reads.) " My darling 
 little birdie." Heigh-ho! {Kissing letter and tlien looking vp at 
 portrait.) There is no one to call me his " little birdie " now ! 
 
 {S7ie pleices her handkerchief to her eyes and rests her face in 
 her Jiand, loith her elbow on the table. She crumples the letter 
 and tosses it bcu'k of her to the fire, sighs, brushes her eyes and 
 is about to take another lettter. She suddenly starts up.) 
 
 Oh ! No ! I forgot ! 
 
 {She hurries to the firepla.ce; stoops down and secures the 
 letter; returns and stands at the table, smoothing it out as she 
 proceeds. ) 
 
 John is looking down upon me now from the canvas. 
 
 {Puts avmy the letter; walks up \.. c, stops before the por- 
 trait, and looks up at it icith a sad expression.) 
 
OLD LOVE LETTERS. 7" 
 
 Dear Jobn ! 
 
 (She turns nj) to the iiiindou\ leaning again.st the casing, L., 
 and looking out.) 
 
 Rain, rain, rain ! I sliall die of ennui ! A widow always misses 
 her husband so much — on a rainy day. {Looking up at portrait 
 over her shoulder.) Mr. Brownlee used to be such company for 
 me — when I couldn't get out of the house. {Again looking out of 
 the window, noio becoming deeply serious.) Rain, rain, rain ! It 
 was on just such a day as this — will it always come into my mind 
 when it rains? And I try so hard to keep it out ! 
 
 Note. — If the lady is not a particularly good singer, this 
 song should be omitted. The first stanza, in this case, should 
 be recited during the preceding speech, after the words " I 
 try so hard to keep it out, "and she should move down, slowly, 
 durino" the remainder of the speech, dropping into the chair 
 at table with her face in her hands at the words " I have 
 not lived at all since then." Very low, accompanying music 
 by the orchestra, which should begin at the second "rain, 
 rain, rain "and continue until she drops into the chair at 
 table. Mrs. Booth did this instead of singing, in the original 
 production, and it is probably the better way, even if the 
 lady is a singer. — B. H. 
 
 " Tlie day is cold, and dark, and dreary; 
 
 It rains, and the wind is never weary; 
 
 The vine still clings to the mouldering wall, 
 
 But at every gust the dead leaves fall, 
 
 And the day is dark and dreary. 
 
 " My life is cold, and dark, and dreary; 
 It rains, and the wind is never weary; 
 My thoughts still cling to the mouldering past, 
 But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast, 
 And the days are dark and dreary." 
 
 It was just such a day as this — thirteen years ago. Edward 
 and I — we — parted for the last time — in this very room. People 
 have called me frivolous. I am. What can a woman be ? What 
 must a woman be ? I have never lived my own life. 1 have 
 only done the best I could in a life that should have been lived 
 by another woman. My own life — he was a part of it. I have 
 not lived at all since then ! 
 
 {Buries her face in her hand; silently moms doim. ; raises 
 her face; goes to the pia7io, wearily; plays an accompaniment 
 and sings. She leans listlessly on the piano a second; rises, 
 moves to the table and stands fumbling through the old letters 
 ■with an absent air. She raises a package from beneath, the pile., 
 done tip in faded tissue paper and tied with ct faded ribbon.) 
 
8 OLD LOVE LETTERS. 
 
 Why, vvliat are these, done up so carefully ? The wrapper is old 
 and faded, and the ribbon — {About to untie it.) — Why — I — I — 
 {Turns over the package; reads.) "June 12th, 1876. When love 
 begins to sicken and decay" — I — thought — I — I thought — I had 
 destroyed those letters. No — I — I mean — I — I thought I had 
 destroyed those letters ! No — I remember ! Oh ! I — should have 
 destroyed them before my marriage. It was neither respectful to 
 Mr. Brownlee, nor consistent with my own dignity as his wife. 
 
 {She icalks to the mantel, with dignity, and makes a motion to 
 throw the package into the fire. She withholds her hand and 
 hesitates, looking d.oicn at the package. She repeats this motion, 
 and then slowly unties the outside ribbon; takes off the wrapper, 
 which she crumples and throics into the fire.) 
 
 Of course it isn't. Of — of course, it — it — it isn't wicked for me 
 to keep them now. 
 
 {She looks at the letter a moment, then turns Iter head, slowly, 
 and looks over Iter shoulder at the portrait of her husband. 
 Again makes a motion to throw the package into the fire; hesi- 
 tates again. She finally places the letters in the bosom (/ her 
 dress, then yields to her real feelings, drops her face into her 
 hands, and sobs.) 
 
 {Enter a servant, i?. u. e. lie has a card upon a small, 
 silver salver. He steps in stiffly and stops, down r. c. Mes. 
 Brownlee draws up, dashes the tears from her eyes, quickly, 
 and extends her hand idth dignity. The servant moves to her. 
 She takes the card; starts slightly as she looks at it. Draics vp.) 
 
 Show the gentleman into this room, Henry. {l^ie servant 
 moves up, to retire.) Ah ! Henry. {He stops and turns back.) 
 You may place that drawer in the cabinet. {The servant proceeds 
 to obey, and Mrs. B. continues, aside.) A distinguished visitor — 
 the Minister Plenipotentiary of the United States to a foreign 
 court. The Honorable Edward Warburtou has returned from his 
 arduous duties abroad. {Alaud ) Henry, you may say to the 
 gentleman that Mrs. Brownlee will be down jiresently. 
 
 [Exit servant, R. u. E. 
 Thirteen years. {She moves to the mantel a,nd looks into the mirror; 
 draws back.) It is not the same face — it is not the same. {Moves 
 L.) Has he, too, changed so much ? [Exit, L. 1 E. 
 
 {The servant re-epters, r. u. e. Enter Warburton. He 
 glancesback, with a slight inclination of the head to the servant, 
 who immediately retires. Warburton casts his eyes around 
 the room for a moment; then he glances about a little, ner- 
 i)ously, tJtough Ids general manner is composed and dignified. 
 He looks into the fire, slowly removing one of his gloves.) 
 
 Warburton. Rather out of season for a fire; very comfort- 
 able, however. It is hardly colder than this in Vienna, in the 
 middle of December. How my heroic ancestors, who came over 
 in the "Mayflower," managed at first to endure the climate of 
 
OLD LOVE LETTERS. 9 
 
 Massachusetts is a profound mystery to me. I should be hardly 
 willing to endure as much for the benefit of my posterity. My 
 wife, poor dear, succumbed to the chills of Paris. Even the 
 warm skies of SoutherD Italy failed to restore her. Heigh-ho ! 
 Poor darling! {He looks around the apartment.) Surely this 
 room — I cannot be mistaken — now that I see the inside of the 
 house. It must be the same — (Looking at the room.) — and yet 
 — Ah ! I see, Mr.«. Brownlee probably returned to the old family 
 mansion after the death of her — her husband. {He stops. R. c, 
 looking down tlioughifully .) It was in this very apartment — 
 eighteen — eighteen hundred and — seventy ? (He takts a wallet 
 from his brea.st pocket, ojjens it, looks through the folds and takes 
 out a card photograph.) Ah ! Mrs. Warburton ! A good, gentle, 
 sweet creature. {Kisses it and returns it. He looks through the 
 folds and takes out another card, wrapped in white paper. He 
 unfolds the paper and looks at the j)icture, steadily.) Florence. 
 She was a girl of nineteen, then — luxuriant hair — complexion as 
 delicate and brilliant as the tint of an apple-blossom. It is only 
 a fading memory. She is very different now, I suppose. {Looks 
 at paper.) Ah! here it is: (Reads.) "June 12th, 1875." 
 Thirteen years ago. (Beads.) 
 
 " They sin who tell us love can die; 
 With life, all other passions fiy^ 
 All others are but vanity." 
 
 Southey. What nonsense great poets can write ! 
 
 {He looks at the picture a moment, then suddenly starts; 
 looks L., as if hearing a sound; hastily returns the paper, 
 p>icture and icallet to his pocket. Straightens up and stands in 
 an expectant attitude to receive Mrs. Brownlee. iShe does 
 not enter. He sees his mistake, turns up stage and then dow7i 
 L. c. to before mirror. He looks at himself, running Ms-hand 
 through his hair, &c. , &c. ) 
 
 Thirteen years make a very marked difference in the appearance 
 of a human being. There was not a gray hair in my head at that 
 time — not a wrinkle in my face. Ah ! well, we must all grow 
 old — {Walking to table.) — men and women alike. (Throiring open 
 the album.) Mrs. Brownlee's father. A fine-looking old gentle- 
 man. {Turns a leaf.) Florence herself. (Pauses; looks at it 
 steadily.) Evidently taken only a year or two after our — our — 
 after our last meeting. Heigh-ho ! There is a fuller and deeper 
 womanhood in that face, but she hardly looks older than when I 
 last saw her. Do women shed their early griefs so lightly, then ? 
 Perhaps there is a date. (Lie takes the card from the album; looks 
 at back; starts.) Eighteen hundred and eighty-eight ! — The 
 present year ! 
 
 {He stands a moment, staring at the card, turning the face 
 and back, alternately. He then walks before the mirror, where 
 he looks at his own face, then at the jncture. He repeats this 
 action several times. He then returns to the table, tosses the 
 
10 OLD LOVE LETTEKS. 
 
 cdnU into the album, shuts the cover with some force, and mores 
 to and fro, thoroughly piqued. He turns up c. , sees the por- 
 trait on the wall; stops; looks at it with his ege-glasses.) 
 
 A portrait of her liusbaud, 1 suppose. I never met Mr. Brownlee. 
 At least forty years lier senior. M — m — I don't like liis face. 
 {Shaking his head.) I don't like the expression. 
 
 (Re-enter Mrs. B., i,. 1 e. He still stands criticising the 
 picture.^ not h.earing her. Mks. B. stops, down L., looking at 
 him, quietly.) 
 
 Something about the lines of the mouth. (Shaki/ig his head.) 
 The eyes have a certain cold, hard look. 
 
 Mks. B. Mr. Warburton ! [He starts.^ turning towards her.) 
 
 Ware. Mrs. Brownlee ! {He extends his hand, frankly, and 
 tcfdks down to meet her. She extends her hand. He takes it.) 
 
 Mrs. B. I am so glad to meet you again, after so long a time, 
 Mr. Warburton. 
 
 Ware. Thank you, madam. {A slight pxt'use, in which he 
 looks at her, steadfastly, retaining her hand.) Thirteen years ! 
 
 {They look at each other a moment in silence. She droops her 
 eyes. He releases her hand and moves n. She looks after 
 him. He stops, r. c. She moves to the table, i'. c, and strikes 
 
 hell.) 
 
 Mrs. B Pray remove your coat, Mr. Warburton. {He bows 
 acknowledgement and proceeds to comply.) We should hardly 
 have known each other, Mr. Warburton, if we had not met else- 
 where. 
 
 Ware. I can be more complimentary, madam. Old Father 
 Time has shown you more gallantry than he accords to the 
 majority of ladies. He has politely touched his forelock, appar- 
 ently, and parsed by on the opposite side. 
 
 ]\Irs. B. Your politeness compels me to remember that you 
 are a diplomatist, Mr. Warburton. 
 
 Wake. I am an American diplomatist, madam. We usually 
 keep on the truthful side of facts, even when politeness lies on 
 the other. 
 
 \Enter servant, R. 3 e.] 
 
 Mrs. B. Henry — Mr. Warburton's hat and coat. {Sermni 
 takfs hat and coat, and retires, R. 3 E.) Be seated, Mr. War- 
 burton. 
 
 Ware. Honestly, then, Mrs. Brownlee— (Prawns' a chair f>r 
 her at l. of table. She sits.) — as a diplomatist and friend — {Sitting 
 at R. of table.) -you look almost as young as you did— as— when 
 — when — as you did thirteen years ago. 
 
 Mus. B. Honestly, then, I am sincerely glad you think so. 
 A woman ninety years old is quite willing to be mistaken for 
 eightv-five. I confess to the most durable weakness of my sex. 
 I will not flatter you, Mr. Warburton. The arduous duties of 
 
 ipuhlic life, Iwill not say time 
 
 ^ Ware. Say it frankly, madam. Father Time has shown him- 
 
OLD LOVE LETTERS. 11 
 
 self a severe creditor in my case. I litive been borrowing my 
 years from him at a very high rate of interest. Like the unjust 
 steward, he has insisted on his own, with usury. Ha, ha ! My 
 hair is nearlv as grav at forty as it should be at sixty. Ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Mhs. B. 'Oh ! sir— I 
 
 Ware. And other men of forty bow with reverence to my 
 gray moustache. 
 
 Mks. B. You are entirely too severe. 
 
 Ware. Truth is usually severe, madam; and she becomes 
 more and more so as we grow older. 
 
 Mrs. B. I did not intend to 
 
 Ware. To be as severe as the truth. Ha, ha, ha ! I acquit 
 you of any such intention. You are a woman of society, madam; 
 the most graceful and the m ist skillful of diplomatists. By the 
 way, Mrs. Brownlee — this house— as I was coming up the street, 
 following the directions I had received — lhe trees outside had 
 grown so much, and the ivy so covers the building now — but as 
 I entered this room — the fact is — I am a trifle confused. Every- 
 thing looks so natural to me, and yet 
 
 Mrs. B. It is the same house in which I resided with my 
 father, when 
 
 Ware. I thought it must be the same— the same in which 
 you resided when — when 
 
 Mrs. B. When 
 
 Ware. {Serioiidy and doidi/^ lookitig froid.) When you and 
 I last parted ! 
 
 Mrs. B. (Looking doinn.) The last time we met. 
 
 Ware. Thirteen years ago ! 
 
 Mrs. B. Last June ! 
 
 Ware. The 12th, in the afternoon ! 
 
 Mrs. B. Half past three ! 
 
 Both. Heigh-ho! {Looking front.) 
 
 Ware. It was very much such a rainy afternoon as this. 
 
 Mrs. B. Yes — I — remember — it did rain. 
 
 Ware. Heigh-ho! 
 
 Mrs. B. Heigh-ho ! I have always resided in this house. 
 
 Ware Indeed ! 
 
 Mrs. B. You see — when I was — when — when I was 
 
 Ware. Married. 
 
 Mrs. B. When I was — married 
 
 (She pauses in reverie. They both look before ihem, thonght- 
 fvlly and in silence. He turns and looks at her a moment, 
 seriously ) 
 
 Ware. As you were saying, madam 
 
 Mrs. B Eh? Oh— {Starting front her reverie.)— yes— a.s I 
 was saying {Hesitates, as if trying to collect her thovghis.) 
 
 Ware. When you were married 
 
 Mrs. B. Oh — certainly — when we were first married, we came 
 here to live. My father died afterwards, and my— my — Mr. 
 Brownlee and I continued to reside here. Little cr nothing has 
 been changed. 
 
IS OLD LOVE LETTERS. 
 
 Ware. I never had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Brownlee. 
 {Glances ocer his shoulder at jndure; rises; walks vp r. c.) This 
 is your husband's portrait, I presume. 
 
 Mrs B. Yes. 
 
 Warb. M — m — about your father's age. 
 
 Mbs. B. My father and Mr. Brownlee were old schoolmates. 
 
 Warb. M — m — I was looking at the picture before you en- 
 tered the room ; a fine face. I like it. A gentle, fatherlyespres- 
 sion in his eyes. 
 
 Mrs. B. Mr. Brownlee was al«'ays kind to me. 
 
 Warb. Undoubtedly. Every line in his face would convince 
 me of tliat. Ah ! madam ! {Moving doicn to her, and taking her 
 hand, ichich rests upon the table, in his own.) Heigh-ho! I, too, 
 have loved and lost. 
 
 {Presses her hand a moment, gently; releases it and resumes 
 his seat. They look at each other across the tal)le, mournfully; 
 then both look down before them a moment. ) 
 
 Mrs. B. You have been a widower several years, I believe, Mr. 
 Warburton ? 
 
 Warb. About four years — no— six years — yes — four — four 
 years last March — 1 would say next October. Mrs. Warburton 
 died exactly five years ag(3 — last November. She was an admi- 
 rable woman. I was devotedly attached to her. I really could not 
 have been more warmly attached to Mrs. Warburton if she had 
 been my own sister instead of^uy wife. (Mrs. B. glances up at 
 him. quickly, then awny.) Poor, dear woman. She was hardly 
 fitted for the gay official life of a gay European capital; extremely 
 domestic in her tastes. You never met Mrs. Warburton 't {He 
 takes a wallet from hispocliet; takes out card; is 'passing it to her; 
 she raises her hand to receive it. He suddenly withdraws it.) No. 
 {Returns it; takes another.) This one. 
 
 Mrs. B. a sad, sweet face. There is something in that face — 
 a suggestion of hopes that were unfulfilled. {Looking earnestly 
 and sadly at picture.) We women can understand each other so 
 well. 
 
 Warb. I frequently noticed the ratlier — melancholy — expres- 
 sion to which you refer — while Mrs. Warburton was living. I — 
 I tried to do everything I could to make life cheerful for her — 
 but 
 
 Mrs. B. You loved her as devotedly as if she were your own 
 sister? 
 
 Warb. Quite— quite — I assure you. No one who knew her 
 could help loving her. 
 
 Mrs. B. She should have been very happy in such a love. 
 
 Warb. I really wish you could have known Mrs. Warburton. 
 We often spoke of jpu. 
 
 Mrs. B. You — spoke — of me? 
 
 Warb. Frequently ! Ha, ha, ha, ha — {Begin )ri/ig a pleasant 
 but somewhat forced laugh ) — ha, ha! Of course, I told her about 
 the — the — the — Ha, ha, ha ! — the desperate flirtation — you and I 
 had. Ha, ha, ha 
 
OLD LOVE LETTERS. 13 
 
 Mrs. B. Oh ! Ha, laa, ha, ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 {Joining icith him in a merry ripple of laughter. He con- 
 tinues to laugh. She suddenly checks hemelf, and turns partly 
 aicay, biting her lips.) 
 
 Wakb. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha ! You and Mrs. Warburton could 
 have laufihed over it together. 
 
 Mrs. B. Certainly; Mrs. Warburton and I could have laughed 
 ^over it together. 
 
 """Ware. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, hal I dare say you and Mr. Brown- 
 lee laughed over your early love affairs, as frequently as Mrs. 
 Warburton and I laughed over mine. 
 
 Mrs. B. Mr. Brownlee and I laughed over them quite as fre- 
 quently, 1 dare say. Heigh-ho! {Suddenly assuming a sad tone.) 
 Mr. Brownlee and I were very happy together. In spite of the 
 difference in our ages, we were perfectly congenial. My heart 
 had never known another love. 
 
 Ware. I — I beg your pardon, madam — but I — I 
 
 Mrs. B. Sir? {LooJaiig at him^ inth an innocent air.) 
 
 Ware. I don't think I exactly caught your last remark. 
 
 Mrs. B. I was speaking of Mr. Brownlee and myself. I had 
 never experienced anything more than — the mere — the mere 
 thoughtless tlutterings, so to speak, of a young school-girl's heart, 
 you know. 
 
 Ware. Y— e— s, precisely. 
 
 Mks. B. Mr. Brownlee was my first true hero. 
 
 Ware. Y— e— s? 
 
 Mrs. B. We — were — were very happy together. But it could 
 not last. 
 
 {Site averts her head, drawing her handkerchief from her 
 pocket, and quietly pressing it to her eyes. He regards her, 
 half puzzled, half incredulously, but with a re^p>ectful and 
 serious demeanor.) 
 
 Ware. Pardon me, madam, if our conversation has recalled 
 unhappy recollections. I did not intend to intrude upon the 
 sacred -feelings of a devoted wife. Permit me to change the sub- 
 ject. I will mention the particular object — aside from a natural 
 desire to meet an old friend — the immediate object of my present 
 visit. I have called to render an act of justice to yourself, and to 
 offer you an apology. On my arrival from Europe, about a week 
 ago, after an absence of several years, I visited the old family resi- 
 dence of the Warburton's, in the vicinity of Concord. It is the 
 first time I had been to the place for twelve years. The estate has 
 bttt recently returned, in fact, to ray possession. Day before yester- 
 terday — in the afternoon — I was rummaging among a lot of musty 
 papers in a long-deserted room of the old mansion, and I came 
 across a bundle of old letters. {Taking packet from his pocket ) 
 They were carefully wrapped in tissue paper, and tied with a blue 
 ribbon. 
 
 Mrs. B. You found them among some other old rubbish, in a 
 deserted room '? 
 
-14 OLD LOVE LETTERS. 
 
 Ward. A sort of a store-room. TLej' had been very carefully 
 put away in a secret drawer of an ancient mahogany cabinet, 
 which one of my ancestors brought over in sixteen-twenty. Imag- 
 ine my surprise, madam — I was positively startled — to discover 
 that they were your own letters lo me — written during our — 
 our 
 
 Mks. B. Our flirtation 
 
 Ware. Our flirtation — thirteen years ago. {He lays the paclrt 
 on the table. ) 
 
 Mbs. B. You will pardon me, Mr. Warburlon, if I say I have 
 been at a loss to understand why you had never returned those 
 letters before. 
 
 VVarb. That question puzzled me, when I first found them. 
 It is for that, madam, I owe you an apology— though I confess 
 that now it is very late to offer one I removed the dust from a 
 neighboring chair, and sat down to ponder over the subject. I 
 thought about it an hour or more. There was no one in the old 
 house to disturb my thoughts. It seemed almost as if it were only 
 this morning that I tied those letters in a packet, intending to 
 return them to you. I recalled our last meeting distinctly, \^'e 
 — we^if you remember — we — we — had quarreled. 
 
 Mks B. Yes. We had quarreled. 
 
 Ware On the previous evening. Of coitrse, we can both of 
 us— { Very seriously.) — laugh over the matter, now? • 
 
 Mrs B. Of course. VVe can both laugh over it, now. 
 
 Ware. Those early lovers' quarrels are so amusing to look 
 back upon in after years. 
 
 Mrs. B. Perfectly ludicrous. 
 
 W.\RB. How little you and I dreamed at that time that we 
 could laugh over the affair so heartily, now. 
 
 Mrs. B. We wouldn't have believed it. 
 
 Ware. Heigh-ho ! 
 
 Mrs. B. Heigh-ho ! 
 
 Ware. I am still at a lo!=s, madam, to explain how I happened 
 finally to retain those letters in my possession. I trust, however, 
 that you will accept my apology without that definite explanation 
 which it is now impossible for me to give. 
 
 Mrs. B. Certainly, Mr. Warburton, I accept your apology. I 
 will also return to you your own letters to me. 
 
 Ware. You have— retained them— so long— madam? 
 
 Mrs. B. In the expectation that ray own might eventually be 
 returned to me. {She strikes hell on taiile.) I am a housekeeper, 
 Mr. Warburton. It is a disgrace to a woman not to understand 
 where everything is, in her house. I know precisely where your 
 letters are at the present moment. 
 
 [Enter servant.] 
 
 Ware. Indeed ! 
 
 Mrs. B. Henry, you may ask Martha to look in the old black 
 walnut bureau in the spare bedroom— 2d floor front— the third 
 drawer from the top. She will find a small rosewood box, inlaid 
 with mother-of-pearl, in the outer left-han'd corner of the drawer. 
 You may bring it to me. [E.vit servant. R. u. E. 
 
OLD LOVE LETTERS. 15 
 
 Wahb. Permit me to compliment you, madam ; I have never 
 known a more accurate housekeeper. 
 
 Mrs. B. Tliank you. A careful housekeeper becomes so ac- 
 customed to keepino^ everything in perfect order. She does it 
 instinctively — without giving any one thing in particular a ^ 
 second thought. 
 
 Wahb. Exactly. Precisely. {A diylU pause.) As I was just 
 saying, when 1 found this packet of letters — 1 sat down by my- 
 self — in the old mansion, and I recalled every circumstance of 
 our -our — last meeting — distinctly. You were then a young girl 
 of barely nineteen — and a young girl of that age, of course — as 
 you know — as we all know — {Complacently.)— a. young girl of 
 nineteen is the most — Ha, ha, ha ! — the most unreasonable thing 
 
 in the world. Ha, ha, ba 
 
 {Sitting back in Ids chair, calmly trifling with Jns iratch- 
 guard and looking front. She draws vp and looks across at 
 him. then away. She sits bolt upright as he proceeds, in an 
 attitude suggestive of sl<jicly rising indignation.) 
 
 Ha, ha, ha ! A hot-headed young girl, who imagines herself in 
 love, is a inore formidable creature to deal with than any one of 
 the six great powers. Ha, ha, ha ! 1 have never met anyrhing 
 in my dii)lomatic career so difficult to treat with 1 had no con- 
 nection with the Alabama difficulty, but I dare say that was a 
 
 mere bagatelle — compared with the — the successful unraveling 
 
 of an— emotional entanglement — with a girl of nineteen. Ha, 
 ha, ha, ha 
 
 (Mrs. B. rises, in a stately loay; looks down at him xcith great 
 dignity and with suppressed indignation. She turns and walks 
 to the mantel; glancesbaek at him; then looks down into the 
 fire, the tips of her toes resting on the fender. He proceeds, 
 still looking front, and vnth the same low, complacent lavgh.) 
 
 Ha, ha, ha, ha ! I remember what desperate efforts I made to 
 explain to you how entirely you misunderstood the real situation. 
 {She taps the fender with her foot, and looks back at him over 
 her shoulder, biting her lips.) 
 
 Ha, ha, ha, ha ! It was of no earthly use, however. You would 
 not listen to reason for a moment. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha ! {Throw- 
 ing back his luead <uul still trifling witli his guard.) Girls will be 
 girls ! 
 
 (SJie utters a quick, spiteful groirl between her clenched teeth, 
 turning to the fire again. He glaiices at her over his shoulder. ) 
 
 Eh? {He rises, turns towards her, and continues, inquiringly .) I 
 beg your pardon ? 
 
 Mrs. B {Looking vp, trying to smile and keep liertempjer down.) 
 I — I — made — no — remark — Mr. Warburton. 
 
 Ware. Oh ! Excuse me. 
 
 {He 2)auses a second, looking at lier. She looks into the fire. 
 He turns quietly up R. c. ; jjuts up his eye-gmssts and looks at 
 the portrait of Mr. Brownlee. They stand a moment in silence.) 
 
16 OLD LOVE LETTERS. 
 
 Mrs. B. Mr. Warburton! 
 
 Warb. Madam? 
 
 Mrs. B. Have you ever found any use for sucli a tiling as 
 memory during your experience as a diplomatist? 
 
 Ware. A— memory? 
 
 Mrs. B. a memory. If such a faculty is ever demanded in 
 diplomatic life — I — you will pardon my frankness — but I — I 
 really wonder at your success. 
 
 Warb. {Pkasantly.) I do not understand you. 
 
 Mrs. B. On second tliouglit, I am wrong. The art of forget- 
 ting with accuracy requires an excellent memory. 
 
 Warb. Keally, madam — I 
 
 Mrs. B. You were speaking of a — a certain— misunderstand- 
 ing — in which you and I were concerned— about thirteen years 
 ago. The remarkable distinctness with which you have forgotten 
 your own relations to that afifair convinces me that you have an 
 unusually good memory. 
 
 Wakb. Upon my soul, Mrs. Brownlee, I 
 
 Mrs. B. You remarked that a young girl of nineteen was the 
 most unreasonable creature in the world. May I ask, sir, whether 
 every young man of twenty-seven is an infallible philosopher? 
 
 Warb. My dear madam, I trust nothing I have said in refer- 
 ence to that affair has given rise to the slightest unpleasant 
 feeling on your part. 
 
 Mrs. B. Oh ! certainly not, sir. Not in the least, sir. Quite 
 the contrary. The manner in which you have referred to our 
 mutual relations has been calculated to arouse a particularly 
 pleasant feeling on my part! {She taps the fender with her foot.) 
 
 Warb. I assure you — I — I merely intended to recall — in a 
 good natured way — an incident which can have no serious interest, 
 of course, for either of us, at the ]3resent time. And yet it is one 
 which must be always more or less interesting to both of us — as 
 a part of our early, personal experience. I meant to say nothing 
 about yourself in particular, as a young girl, which we should 
 not both recogii :',e as characteristic of young girls in general. I 
 can say with pcrlect frankness, indeed, that I really think — you 
 — never appeared to greater advantage than on that occasion. 
 Your appearance, in fact, has lingered in my memory from that 
 day to the present. You had on a plain white dress, trimmed 
 prettily with a few fresh violets, which I had just gathered for 
 you in the garden. You were standing near the window— I 
 remember your exact attitude — when you first began the quarrel. 
 {She turns suddenly, drawing up and looking at Idm indignantly.) 
 You remember? {She sails etcross the extreme u. front, tchere she 
 folds lier arms a/nd pats her foot.) As a young man of twenty- 
 seven being an " infallible philosopher " — {Moving down across L.) 
 — certainly not, my dear madam — certainly not— Ha, ha, ha ! 
 On the contrary, I regard a young man of twenty-seven, in love, 
 as the greatest dunce in the world — Ha, ha. ha ! I speak from 
 experience! T was a dunce at twenty-seven! 
 
 Mrs. B. For the first time, Mr. Warburton, since we have 
 been indulging iii these — pleasant — reminiscences — your memory 
 
OLD LOVE LETTERS. 17 
 
 has assumed its normal functions. It was the fact that T was 
 not a "dunce "that compelled me to regard your relations to 
 Laura Malvern as the proper subject of an explanation. (Moving 
 towards R. of table, and sjjealdng with increased vehemence.) 
 
 Warb. {QnicMy aj)i)roachinrj l.) My dear Florence — {She 
 dratos up.) — Mrs. Brownlee — you would persist that I was in the 
 wrong. {Half angrily. ) 
 
 Mrs. B. Indeed ! And which of us was the most obstinate, 
 sir? You would persist in being in the wrong! {Sitting R. of 
 table, provoked and excited.) 
 
 Ware. I assured you of my perfect willingness to forget and 
 forgive everything. {Sitting L. ofteMe, tdtli similar manner.) 
 
 Mrs. B. Y — e — s? {Patting her feet more amd more violently. 
 Iter temper getting the better of her.) I— 1 — remember — your con- 
 descension ! 
 
 Warb. You would not listen to me. 
 
 Mrs. B. Silence, sir! 
 
 Warb. I 
 
 Mrs. B. Not another word ! 
 
 Warb. Any more than you will, now. 
 
 Mrs. B. I, an unreasonable creature! I — indeed! — I would 
 not listen to you! Laura Malvern afterwards confessed to nie, 
 herself, that you were both in the wrong! 
 
 Warb. Well — really — 1 — you will excuse me — but I don't 
 know that 1 am obliged to recognize a confession of my sins — by 
 proxy. 
 
 Mrs. B. Laura cried about it — in my room — for two hours — 
 and I forgave her. 
 
 Warb. {Assuming a self-repressed and complacent air.) Laura 
 Malvern was a good girl ; pretty, too. Laura was a charming 
 girl. 
 
 Mrs. B. Ver}'. Laura had so many charms she could afford 
 to waste them. 
 
 Ware. There was a stately air about her — an air, so to speak 
 of 
 
 Mrs. B. An air of — superiority — to those about her! 
 
 Warb. There was at the same time a certain — simplicity — a 
 freshness 
 
 Mrs. B. Her simplicity was fascinating. She hadn't enough 
 of it to become — your wife — apparently. 
 
 Ware. I have often thought — of course, I never received any 
 assurance — of my — my — possible hopes — in that direction ; but I 
 have often thought — I dare say — that is — I have always had a 
 lingeriuw feeling — heigh-ho ! — Laura Malvern might have made 
 me — happy. 
 
 Mrs. B. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 {Bnrsting suddenly into a peal of hearty laughter, and rising. 
 Warb. rises, and regards her, witJiout smiling.) 
 
 Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha ! — you'd better cross the street — and— ha, ha, 
 ha, ha ! — discuss the matter with Laura herself. She is the 
 mother of five boys. {Moving up R.) Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha ! 
 
18 OLD LOVE LETTERS. 
 
 Warb. Ha, ha, ba, ha ! — {Joining her in ilie laugh, and moving 
 down L.) — Ha, ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 {He turns and extends hoth hix hands towards her. She 
 extends her hands tomirds him. He moires up and takes her 
 hands in his own, up n.) 
 
 Ware. A widower of forty. 
 
 Mrs. B. Quarreling as if we were mere children. 
 
 Both. {Swinging their hands.) Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Ware. Beginning again precisely where we left off. 
 
 Mrs. B. Thirteen years ago. 
 
 (Ware. looTcs into her face, earnestly. >->]ie di'oojys her eyes. 
 [Miter servant, R. v. e.] I'hey drop each others hands as if 
 interrupted.) 
 
 Mrs. B. Eh ? Henry ? Oh— yes. 
 
 {She moves to mantel, l. He to piano., R. She receives a 
 small box of rosewood and mother-of-pearl from the servant.) 
 
 That will do, Henry. [Exit servant, R. u. e. 
 
 (Mrs. B. glemces at Ware., toho is looking over the music at 
 2)iano. She stands turned away from him, and takes the 
 packet of letters from the bosom of her dress, glancing back at 
 him over her shoulder once or twice as she does so. She places 
 the letters in the box, closing the lid, deliberately, and locking it; 
 then looks over at him.) 
 
 Ware. {Reading from sheet of music.) 
 
 " My thoughts still cling to the mouldering past, 
 But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast, 
 And the days are dark and dreary. 
 
 " Be still, sad heart, and cease repining; 
 Behind the clouds is the sun still shining." 
 
 Mrs. B. {Wedking to l. of table.) My servant has brought uie 
 the box which I instructed him to get. 
 Ware. {Moving to r. of table.) Ah! 
 
 {She deliberately unlocks the box, threncs the lid open and takes 
 out the letters.) 
 
 Mrs. B. Your letters to me, Mr. Warburton. They were 
 exactly where I thought they were. 
 Ware. I see. 
 
 {He takes up the packet of letters from the table. They look 
 down a moment from, the respective packets in their hands.) 
 
 What curious creatures young lovers are. It takes so slight a 
 thing to make them quarrel. 
 
 Mrs. B. Mere trilies set them off. {Sits.) 
 
 Ware. It all seems to come back to me as vividly as if it 
 happened yesterday. After our — misunderstanding — I returned 
 
OLD LOVE LETTERS. 19 
 
 home in a very excited frame of mind. I remember distinctly, I 
 could not sleep all night. I tossed about till morning. 
 
 Mrs. B. I cried myself to sleep. Comical to think about, now. 
 
 Warb. I remember— I arose next morning, fully determined 
 to return your letters at once— as you had commanded. I did 
 them up carefully in a paper, but I lingered over each so long 
 it took me all the morning. 
 
 Mrs. B. It was noon before I finally had the ribbon on your 
 packet. 
 
 Warb. I failed to send them to you; somehow, I could not 
 find it in my heart to part with them at that time; some foolish, 
 longing fancy. How curiously our feelings alter in timeV All 
 such fancies;, of course, have passed away long ago — and we — we 
 can now exchange these same letters— face to face — without the 
 slightest emotion on either side. Permit me, madam. {Passing 
 her the letters.) 
 
 Mrs. B. We are like different people now. Allow me, Mr. 
 Warburton. {Passing Mm Ms letters.) 
 
 Warb. Ha, ha, ha, ha ! {LaugMng quietly, in, a half amused 
 manner.) What a harmless pair of simpletons we were, to be 
 sure, when we wrote those letters— ha, ha, ha ! {Running Im 
 fingers over the letters.) We might amuse ourselves, Mrs. Brown- 
 lee. 
 
 Mrs. B. Amuse ourselves? 
 
 Warb. Ha, ha, ha, ha ! I will sacrifice myself. My hair is 
 gray, now. You may laugh at me to your heart's content. I will 
 read aloud some of my youthful nonsense. Ha, ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 MiJS. B Ha, ha, ha ! Excellent ! And I haven't the slightest 
 objection to reading you some of mine. I am a widow, now — 
 staid and S'ensible. We can both laugh at each other. It will be 
 rare sport — for both of us — at our age. 
 
 Ware. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha ! We can have a merry time over 
 the absurdities of our own youth. Ha, ha, ha ! Ah. here is one. 
 You remember that evening, Florence, we were walking in the 
 grove and lost our way ? 
 
 Mrs. B. Oh — yes. I remember it perfectly, Edward. 
 
 Warb. It was the first time, if you remember, Mrs. Brownlee, 
 that I mentioned to you — the fact — that — I — ah — entertained — 
 serious views. 
 
 Mrs. B. I recall the incident, Mr. Warburton — and the old 
 stone wall, Edward, where we sat so long together, wondering 
 which was the way home. Proceed, Mr. Warburton. 
 
 Warb. This letter was evidently written on the following 
 day. {Reads.) "My darling rosebud" — Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, 
 ha! 
 
 Mrs. B. Ha, ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 {She stops laughing, abruptly; looks at him as he continues 
 to laugh; turns away, with a slightly nettled air. She tries to 
 join him again, hut stops, piqued. ) 
 
 Warb. "Rosebud." — Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Mrs. B. Really — I — really fail to see anything so very amus- 
 
20 OLD LOVE LETTEKS. 
 
 ing in that, Mr. Warburton. (He stops laugMvg and looks acroxs 
 nt her.) I was barely nineteen at tbat time. As you have your- 
 self recalled, I dressed in simple white. I don't see anything so 
 particularly inappropriate on your part in comparing a young girl, 
 at that age, with a rosebud. 
 
 Ware. Certainly not, my dear madam, nothing could have 
 been more appropriate. (Reads.) "My darling rosebud" — Ha, 
 ha ! — {Checks himself again, glances at her. and continues Ids 
 reading.) " The skies seem brighter to me this morning, darling 
 Florence. All the melodies of nature more delightful to my ears; 
 life a grander thing — a more glorious reality — more full of golden 
 promises 
 
 Mrs. B. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 {Bursting into a ripple of merry laughter. He starts to 
 lau^gh with her, but soon stops and looks at her, seriotisly., across 
 the table. She finally restrains herself and speaks demurely. ) 
 
 Go on. 
 
 Wakb. Allow me to observe, madam, that while the language 
 which I have ju.st read is — ardent — unusually ardent — and — to a 
 certain extent laughable — perhaps — on that account — allow me to 
 remark — there it something so intensely earnest — something so 
 deeply serious, madam — in the natural, exuberant feelings of a 
 young man, under such circumstance.s — of course we might laugh 
 — to a certain extent — at the form in which those feelings are 
 expressed — at the same time 
 
 Mrs. B. Pardon the interruption. Proceed, Mr. Warburton. 
 
 Warb. Certainly. (Returns to letter ) "The skies — melodies 
 of nature — golden promises." Ah! — here it is: "Life seems 
 brighter to me, et cetera — "since you gave me the tender assur- 
 ance, last evening, that you would be mine — all mine — mine only 
 — mine to love and to cherish — forever." 
 
 Mrs. B. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 (Again iursting into a merry laugh. He looks at her, sternly; 
 puts doicn letters on the table with some emphasis; rises; walks 
 up> stage; looks out of window, L. u. corner; turns hack; pau.<<es 
 and looks up at portrait, up R. He returns to his seat, sits, 
 looks across at her, sternly; turns away and folds his arms, 
 assuming a rigid attitude and a stern eapressiort. Mrs B. 
 checks her laughter and regards him witli an amused look.) 
 
 Go on, pray, go on, Mr. Warburton. 
 
 Warb. I don't think there is anything more of special interest 
 in the letters. 
 
 Mrs. B. Oh — I am really beginning to feel interested. But it 
 is only fair that 1 should give you a chance to laugh at me, now. 
 Ha, ha, ha! {Opening her packet.) They were only the silly 
 fancies of a young girl. You may laugh at me as heartily as you 
 like; I will laugh with you. Ah ! this is one — Oh ! Edward ! 
 
 Wakb. {Turning towards lur.) Florence! 
 
 Mrs. B. You remember that day we rode over to Minnehousic 
 Falls together, in my little pony phaeton ? 
 
OLD LOVE LETTERS. 31 
 
 Warb. Yes — Ha, lia, ba, lia! — the pony shied. 
 
 Mrs. B. At another pair of geese. Ha, ha, ha! I nearly fell 
 out, you know. 
 
 Warb. I was obliged to hold you in the phaeton during the 
 rest of the journey. 
 
 Mus. B. Nearly seven miles. This letter was written the next 
 morning. I was telling you how much I enjoyed the drive. 
 
 Warb. It was a pleasant drive. 
 
 Mrs. B. Ah — [Tdkiiig another Utter.) — This was written on the 
 evening of the day after our first engagement. I had just received 
 yours — the one you were reading a moment ago. This is an an- 
 swer to it. 
 
 Warb. M — m. 
 
 Mrs. B. {Reading.) ''My own dear life." 
 
 Warb. Ha, ha, ha, ha {Checking Idmself as he glances at 
 
 her.) 
 
 Mrs. B. If you see anything so absurd in the girlish enthusiasm 
 which dictated 
 
 Warb. Nothing whatever, my dear Florence. 
 
 Mrs. B. "My — own — dear — life." (With deliberate and spite- 
 ful emphasis, looking straight in Ids face over the letter.) You can 
 hear that without a smile. I will proceed. {Beads.) "Your 
 dear, sweet, nice letter has come." (A movement frotn, War- 
 BURTON as if trying to keep from- laughter. 8he looks at Jam, 
 sharply, a moment, .then rontinues.) " I have read it over and over 
 a dozen times already. I cannot tell you, Edward, dear, how 
 happy I have been all day. My — " oh! yes, it is blurred — "My 
 soul" — that's it — "My soul has always yearned for a far-off, 
 unattainable something in the dim liereafter of life." 
 
 Warb. Ha, ha, ha, ha umph! 
 
 {Straigtening Jiis face, with nervous struggles in his ehair. 
 He finally succeeds, and looks at her, sobeily.) 
 
 Mrs. B. {Beading.) "A far-off, unattainable something in 
 the dim hereafter of life. The cravings of a woman's nature for 
 that heart-food — which — which — which — oh! — whicb love — 
 the cravings of a woman's nature for that heart-food which love 
 alone — can supply." 
 
 Warb. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 {Bursting into merry and continued laughter. She d-ratvs 
 tip, biting her lips; puts down letter's with eviphrms; rises^ moves 
 up .stage to window, looking back at Waub. then out of window. 
 Warb. stops laughing; looks up) at her over his shoulder ; rises, 
 moving to R. c. ; turns and looks uo at her, seriously. She 
 turns down L. c , stops before mantel, glances over at him, then 
 looks into the fire. He crosses to her .) 
 
 Florence ! 
 
 {E.vtending his hand. She glances back at him,, averts her 
 head and slightly extends her hand toxvards him. He takes it 
 in both of his own, with a quick and earnest manner, and 
 continues.) 
 
22 OLD LOVE LETTERS. 
 
 We were both of us writing the truth^in ihose ^J^^^^^l 
 
 been trying to act ^f^l^«^«°VLwtLr4^ were wiser, then, 
 middle life. Let ^^^ acknowledge now that ^^e^e , ^^^^ 
 
 I came to return your old love ietteis -1 have Dro.igu .> 
 my heart. , 
 
 iSke hesUaies^ looking away; fen mn^and drops her head 
 upon Im bremt; his arm about her waist.) 
 
 {Music- same as at rise of curtain.) 
 
 Curtain. 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
 016 117 613 8 # 
 
 \.